Glass, Blood, and Ash

I do not want to sit on that broad-​​backed horse,or smell his skin, grassy and hot as boiled husks,inside a shirt ropy with gold tassels and primogeniture.

I never wanted it. I justwanted to look like youfor one night. It should be youhoisted up like a sack of wheat—I stole your ruby comb,your garnet pendant.It must have beenyour jewels he loved.

You will like it — they will put emeralds in your hairand a thin gold crown on your head.They will rub your skin down to supplelike a favorite tiger, soon to bea favorite carpet.Your spine is fit to queen-​​posture, not mine.

It is only a little shoe, only a little lie.It was made from a mirror whose glasswas ground in another tale.Look into it. It surely singsthat you are the fairer.

The doves, their claws still dusty with kitchen-​​ashbrought me a knife hammered out of a diamond.

It is so thinthat a breath will shatter it,but so sharpthat the flesh it cleavesdoes not even knowit has been cut.

Give me your heel.I am the kind one, remember?I would not hurt you.

Please, we are sisters;out of the same striped peltdid our father scissor our hearts.Do this thing for meyour sister is afraid of the manwho loves her so muchhe cannot remember her face.

Hold your breath—I shall hold mine.

II.

The ash that crossed my foreheadwas finer than the ash that greyed my feet—soft as a kiss.

I wanted to dance. I wanted to be warm.I wanted to eat. I wanted anythingbut the furnace-​​grating cutting itsfamiliar welt-​​markinto my back.

With my forehead exalted I went into the wood,calling out to a dead motherlike a saint with her eyes on a plate.But she did not come—a nightingale instead hopped towards mebaring her little brown breast.

I am the song of your beauty, it chirped.

Like a hoopoe, she bent her headand bit her own heartin two. Out of her thin chestspilled a gown red and gleaming,bright as blisters.

It was this I wore under the palace arches,this which cuffed my wrists,cupped my breasts,pinched my waist.

I walked into his arms bathedin the blood of a nightingale,and when we partedhe was drenched in scarlet.

III.

Please, silver-​​sister, do this thing for me.

I do not want to wear that dress again.I do not want to kiss him, I do not wantto know what a prince tastes like. I do not wantto hear the castle doors shut behind me.

I never wanted it. I only wantedto stand in that torchlight for a secondand feel as you must always feel.It should be you hoisted upwith his saddlebags—I stole your coral ringand your attar of roses.It must have beenyour scent he loved.

You will like it — they will put pearls on your fingersand a thin ivory crown on your head.They will hang you up in a halland everyone will look at you,everyone will remark how beautiful you are.Your spine is fitted to that golden hook, not mine.

It is only a little shoe, only a little lie.It was made from a coffin whose glasswas ground in another tale.Look into it. It surely promises peace.

The arch is full of her blood, yes,but that pours out as easily as soup from a ladle.

The doves, their claws still dusty with kitchen-​​ash,brought me a knife hammered out of a diamond.

It is so thinthat a whisper will shatter it,but so sharpthat the flesh it cleavesbelieves itself whole.

Give me your toe.I am the gentle one, remember?I would not hurt you.

Please, we are sisters;out of the same white wooddid our father hew our hearts.Do this thing for meyour sister is afraid of the manwho loves her so muchhe cannot tell her from any other.

Cinderella by Charles Folkard.Be silent—so shall I.

IV.

Is there not another daughter in this house?

My hand is cold and heavy in his. The shoeis full as a spoon, their bloodbright as blisters. My footglides noiseless inon that slick scarlet track.